She went away from the town, repelled by the smell of ashes and the aura of pain and terror that lingered
there. Soon the campfires were left behind her and there was only the soft motion of the river, the green
smell of willows and waterlilies. She came to a thick copse of trees and stood among them, letting little
rootlets creep out from her feet and bury themselves in the soil. In this state of half tree, half woman, she
stood and let the earth soothe her again.
Lilanthe's extrasensory perceptions were at their most sensitive in this state and so she became almost
instantly aware of a clamor of emotion from further up the river. She knew at once who it was who felt
such fear and confusion, such bitter shame. She wriggled her roots free of the earth and moved silently
upstream.
He was crouched in the shelter of a bush of flowering may, rocking back and forth and keening silently.
The tumult of his emotions beat at her and she knelt beside him and said hesitantly, "Laird Finlay?"
At once he sprang around like a cornered animal, crying aloud in surprise and fear. She saw his white
face and startled eyes and then he scrambled backward and stumbled to his feet. For an instant she saw
his tall figure silhouetted against the sky, then she heard his running footsteps as he fled through the trees.
In that moment she recognized him.
"It was ye!" she cried. "Ye're the one who attacked me! Why? Why?"
There was only the rustle of the leaves and the sough of the river. She felt him running away over the
fields, half mad with grief and shame, and knew at once what Finlay Fear-Naught did there and why he
ran. Tears choked her and she turned and hurried back to the camp-fires, knowing she must tell Meghan
and Iseult.
The Keybearer was in the royal pavilion, for once sitting still, her hands idle in her lap, her face fallen into
lines of bitter grief. Gita was snuggled up under her chin, his paw tucked under her collar, his plumy tail
wrapped round her throat. Lachlan lay unconscious on his pallet, Iseult holding his hand and watching his
face. He could have been dead, he was so white and still, his chest barely rising and falling at all. Duncan
Ironfist and Iain sat at the table, drinking whiskey and looking over the maps, their faces set with grim
determination.
They looked up as the tree-shifter came in and at once Meghan's gaze sharpened. "What is it, Lilanthe?"
She told them what she had seen and felt, and they all exclaimed in dismay.
"Nay, no' Finlay Fear-Naught!" Duncan Ironfist cried. "He canna have been the one to betray us! No'
one o' Lachlan's own guard. He wouldna. He couldna!"
"Lilanthe, are ye sure?"

"W-W-Why? Why w-w-would he do such a th-th-thing?"
"But he was so eager, so loyal," Iseult said, remembering how the young laird had come to them after the
Samhain rebellion, his eyes alight with ardor, pledging the new Righ his life and his sword. He had been
the first of the highland lairds to throw in his lot with Lachlan and his support had encouraged many
others to join also.
"He was thinking o' a woman," Lilanthe said softly. "His heart was twisted with longing and shame. He
was sick to his very heart at the massacre in the woods and the burning o' Ardencaple, but still all he
could think o' was this woman, her white skin, her voice, her silvery eyes."
"Maya!" Meghan got to her feet, black eyes flashing. "I should've kent!"